


His Other Preoccupation

by Lynchy8



Series: Fun (and sad!) little drabbles [31]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Era, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Oneshot, fluff with smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7564399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, Sarah brought to my attention <a href="https://thecoffeetragedy.tumblr.com/post/147751423242/you-know-what-popular-pairing-id-love-to-see-more">this post </a> about the severe lack of canon era fics with this pairing. And so you have my offering to rectify this. </p><p>I don't believe anything needs tagging as such, but as usual feel free to let me know if there is something. Also all mistakes are my own.</p>
    </blockquote>





	His Other Preoccupation

**Author's Note:**

> So, Sarah brought to my attention [this post ](https://thecoffeetragedy.tumblr.com/post/147751423242/you-know-what-popular-pairing-id-love-to-see-more) about the severe lack of canon era fics with this pairing. And so you have my offering to rectify this. 
> 
> I don't believe anything needs tagging as such, but as usual feel free to let me know if there is something. Also all mistakes are my own.

Feuilly had always believed that there was redemption to be found in education, and so it stood to reason that anyone who would wilfully neglect education, who would avoid all opportunity to learn and to study, would be someone with whom he would struggle to find common ground. As he strode through the cobbled streets, smoke from his cigarette curling through the cold night air, he laughed quietly to himself at the irony.

The hour was late and so was he. Enjolras had been understanding as he took his leave, but then Enjolras had also been heavily distracted by the noise coming from a certain table in the corner. The main business of the evening had concluded, and a pamphlet was in circulation for discussion. Most of the room had their heads bent in apparent discussion, but there was a suspicious amount of whistling and chatter from that particular area of the room considering the subject under debate. Indeed, at one point Bossuet had fallen from his chair – apparently overcome with laughing – causing Enjolras to rise from his own seat. Feuilly had taken the opportunity to slip out. 

He had crossed the Place Saint-Michel before he caught the sound of someone following behind. The steps were unhurried, for the owner of those well-soled boots was more accustomed to a saunter than a canter. 

“If you walk thus to keep warm,” a gruff voice broke out in greeting, “then might I recommend a tailor for a better coat.”

Feuilly grunted, but allowed Bahorel to fall into step with him. They carried the appearance of two friends, walking through the lamp lit streets, comfortable in silence. 

Feuilly was tired, his eyes prickling from having to paint by candle light now that the nights were far longer than the days. He took pride in his work as a fan maker, though he would be quite happy to never again produce a copy of Moses smashing the Ten Commandments, or indeed a Bird of Paradise. But it was honest work and the workshop was warm in winter and cool in the summer. 

His fellows were friendly enough, although he knew they muttered amongst themselves and raised their eyebrows at him, not understanding the attraction of the students’ company he kept. They did not fathom the comfort Feuilly always found in the Musain. The friendly rabble was his family. 

Courfeyrac had discovered him, and he found that his was a familiar story; for Courfeyrac was a collector of people in much the way others might collect buttons or playing cards. A fancy of his to learn the much reputed language of fans had led Courfeyrac’s feet to Feuilly’s door. Cards and handshakes had been exchanged, and a pleasant invitation to what had been described as a friendly discussion of ideas had been extended. It held great attraction to him and so he had gone, and never looked back.

They were quite young, but a happy and welcoming bunch. Enjolras, especially, seemed delighted with his presence and encouraged his participation at their meetings. They were a varied group of scholars, and so Feuilly had found a home amongst them.

Of course, students they may well have been; but some studied harder than others.

“Would there be much purpose to asking after your lecture today?” Feuilly mused aloud, not necessarily wishing to begin a quarrel, but the subject was as good as any to fit the silence.

“Indeed, friend,” Bahorel replied amiably enough. “For you were there.”

Feuilly started for a moment in confusion before raising his eyes heavenward as he comprehended Bahorel’s meaning and the mischief of his smile. “Or perhaps you refer to that unpleasant business at the university.”

“It is a wonder you remember its name, you visit it so little” Feuilly’s retort was easy and without heat, an old disagreement that they agreed on. 

“My dear Feuilly,” Bahorel sighed with a smile, “I must insist that there is no education to be found in those putrefying walls. My lecture hall is the Musain, where you study yourself I might add. And Enjolras is a far better teacher than Blondeau, or indeed any of the old fossils in that marble mausoleum.”

Feuilly snorted but held his peace, for the reputation of Blondeau was such that all knew of him, though doubtless Bahorel’s name had long been erased from any list that man might once have held.

“There are other subjects if the law is so repugnant to your sensibilities,” Feuilly reasoned, just as a gendarme with a lamp passed them, sparing them a glance and then continuing on his beat, satisfied of their innocuousness. 

“It pleases my parents to say their son is a student of the law in Paris, and so I shall remain if only so that they might brag to their neighbours.” 

“As to the subject of learning, which I know you place great merit thereupon,” Bahorel’s voice was soft as they crossed by the river, the lamps reflected in the sharp flow of the water. “You know as well as I do that the law is unjust and rests stagnant in its airless galleries.”

Feuilly hummed but made no further comment. The old scene was played out to its conclusion. They walked along the Seine in silence before turning once more up a tangle of streets. 

“My parents send their regards.” Bahorel cleared his throat. “Their last letter asked after you particularly. You have damaged my reputation as a layabout most assuredly.”

Feuilly smiled to himself. Bahorel’s parents had made the journey up to Paris over the summer to see for themselves where their three thousand francs a year was going; the lodgings their son had set for himself, and the friends he mentioned so often in his meagre correspondence. 

M. Bahorel had a sharp eye and a canny tongue. Feuilly understood them both to be hard working folk, with Mme Bahorel presenting a matronly figure and somehow managing to tower over her burly son despite her being several feet shorter. 

Their feet found them soon enough at Feuilly’s door. The grate was fireless, but Bahorel pressed him before Feuilly could begin to think to light it. With tenderness he cupped Feuilly’s cheeks and kissed him with a thirst that Feuilly understood only too well. 

“We will be warm enough,” Bahorel murmured. “November is not here yet.”

It had been spring the first time Bahorel had, somewhat nervously, made his overtures. It had already been their habit to retire to Feuilly’s rooms, talking until the candles ran low. Soft rain had been bothering the windowpane the first time Bahorel had kissed him, and Feuilly had found himself a new centre of belonging. 

They had tried to be careful, to set out rules between them so as not to raise suspicion amongst their friends. They attempted to limit their trysts to once or twice in a week, and a different day so as not to form a pattern. They would arrive at group engagements at different times and leave in different directions. They nodded in greeting and sat at different tables. When walking together they were sure to be heard passing the time of day. 

The very portrait of friendship, until they could be alone.

There was a happiness to be found in the unfastening of Bahorel’s frock coat and stripping him down to his shirt and waistcoat. Feuilly traced the sharp blue and gold brocade with a finger, admiring the pattern, before setting to the unbuttoning of the garish garment.

Perhaps Joly, who was ever so concerned with the business of magnets, could have explained the attraction. Feuilly had pondered it enough; the plain honesty to Bahorel’s aversion to his studies and why that made him more fond than furious. Bahorel, at first glance, gave the impression of a rogue too full of bluster, but behind each flourish lay a certain thoughtfulness that Feuilly found compelling. There was steadiness to the feckless nature, and so Feuilly found himself drawn in.

Bahorel’s idle hands made quick work of Feuilly’s shirt fastenings, their clothes swiftly discarded as they tumbled into Feuilly’s narrow bed. It was cosy but Bahorel was right at home, for it was to Feuilly’s rooms they most often retired, despite the more lavish nature of the apartment Bahorel kept. They spent some moments tucked together in tight embrace. Then Feuilly was being pushed, manoeuvred between Bahorel’s spread thighs, invitation evident. 

With a wink, Bahorel pressed a small vial of oil into Feuilly’s hands – and really the man was too presumptuous. Bahorel was clearly in no mood for preamble, though Feuilly would not have been averse to having his cock sucked. Clearly Bahorel had other, more urgent ideas. But his kiss was tender, and it was only too easy for Feuilly to respond. Besides, he was an exquisite bedfellow, surprisingly obedient and quick to follow direction. 

Feuilly opened the willing man in his bed with practised movements, first one finger and then another, watching Bahorel’s expression as he pushed back against the pillow, neck bared. He huffed, impatient, and Feuilly chided him. But as much as he might want to tease, to draw out his preparation, and to wring such begging from him as he knew Bahorel was capable of, Feuilly’s need was just as great.

Instead he took pity.

To have Bahorel like this, to see him abandoned and open with complete trust, was such a joy and privilege, as though Feuilly was in possession of the greatest secret in Paris. They fucked slowly, Feuilly pressed in deep, the sharp dig of Bahorel’s heels at his back urging him on. He returned the favour by pressing his hands to Bahorel’s shoulders. He snapped his hips, enjoying the punched-out breaths his movements elicited. 

Hands scrabbled at his back as he fought to control his rhythm, not wishing to give in to his lusts just yet, but draw out this sweet stolen moment for as long as they might. He wondered how Bahorel would sound if they had not the neighbours to worry about, if every oath gasped into Feuilly’s neck could be sputtered aloud. 

Feuilly bit his own moans into Bahorel’s skin, the corded tendons of his neck well suited to the task. Bahorel was impossibly tight around him, and soon they moved together with practised urgency. 

“Feuilly,” Bahorel breathed, the bed creaking beneath them as they moved. Feuilly answered him with a bruising kiss, biting into Bahorel’s lip. They were well versed in the art of the silent fuck, relying on their neighbours to mind their business and credit any suspicious sounds to an obvious and safe source. 

But to hear his name uttered like a prayer, Feuilly was certain he would never get enough of it.

This was the plain truth of it; he wanted Bahorel. And Bahorel seemed more than happy to give him everything.

Bahorel’s cock rested between them, heavy and neglected. As Feuilly took him in hand, Bahorel tightened his fingers against Feuilly’s back in sharp reaction, hissing through his teeth. They didn’t speak, both beyond words as they moved together towards the inevitable. 

Bahorel came first, keening silently, and Feuilly buried himself in his neck as he followed him over the cliff.

Beneath the bed was a cloth, having long since discovered that the basin upon the washstand was always too far away after such activities. Then Bahorel was rolling over, reversing their positions, and pressing Feuilly with kisses into the mattress. And herein lay the biggest secret of all. It wasn’t just the thrill of the fuck, the flood of feeling that came with it, the heat and the scent and the desire. Afterwards, when it would be typical to roll apart, to gather up lost garments and make one’s exit; that was when Bahorel wrapped himself even closer, enjoying the connection between them and indulging in a few decadent moments more.

Their breaths evened out and Feuilly felt his own eyes begin to droop, lost in the comfort of Bahorel’s embrace. Feuilly was unwilling to disturb such peaceful repose, to drive the man from his bed. But they had agreed back in the spring that it would be unwise to pass a whole night at each other’s lodgings. There was no excuse could they possible give, should someone come calling.

“The knock comes early in the morning,” Feuilly murmured, because he should, leaning up and resting a hand on one broad shoulder. 

Not that the boy sent round to wake the workers would notice anything through the curtained window. 

Bahorel would leave and Feuilly would light the fire, perhaps read a little before dropping off in his empty bed.

Bahorel grunted. “I have business in your quarter, tomorrow. With the Guilds.”

A moment of silence passed before Feuilly laid back down.

It was reasonable enough, Feuilly supposed, and accepted it for what it was, settling himself against the warmth of Bahorel’s skin. He felt the man turn behind him, an arm thrown with deliberate carelessness around his waist. And perhaps he imagined the kiss pressed to his shoulder before he gave over to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I love the idea of Courfeyrac collecting little souls he stumbles across. And of course he would have an interest in the language of fans - which I understand was actually an invention of the fan makers themselves as an excellent marketing ploy.
> 
> Title is taken from the description of feuilly in the brick about his preoccupation being the bettering of himself through education. 
> 
> Many huge thank yous to Sarah, and also to Claire. As you know, I feed off your screaming.


End file.
